


Naval Training and Discipline For Young Ladies

by ImpudentGuttersnipe



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Caning, Corsetry, Crossdressing, Daddy Kink, Face Slapping, Fitzjames In A Dress, Francis is Everyone's Daddy, M/M, Object Penetration, Oral Sex, Rimming, Rope Bondage, Spanking, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 19:38:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17147867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpudentGuttersnipe/pseuds/ImpudentGuttersnipe
Summary: Francis Crozier has masterminded a theft from Erebus, and James Fitzjames will stop at nothing to recover his property.





	Naval Training and Discipline For Young Ladies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [@misssunbeam](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=%40misssunbeam).



> Here's that extremely dirty, filthy Crozier/Jopson/Fitzjames threesome fic you asked for, where Francis is everybody's Daddy! In case you were wondering, no, I have no shame whatsoever! Enjoy! :D

Lieutenant Edward Little hated the errand he had been sent upon, and despised himself for complying, but had no option but to follow his Captain’s orders. Once again, Francis Crozier was too full of whisky and disdain to trek across the ice himself to meet with his second, Captain James Fitzjames, aboard Erebus, and once again Little was left to make Crozier’s excuses for him, along with trading what news and messages needed to be passed from icebound ship to ship. This use as a glorified errand boy was bad enough, but today’s orders from Crozier layered another indignity onto Little’s heavy load: flat out theft. Or aiding and abetting theft, anyway, keeping Fitzjames busy with idle conversation until Jopson and Peglar found whatever it was that the Captain had sent them for in Fitzjames’s personal stores. The entire episode was distasteful, as much of life onboard HMS Terror had been of late, but Little was nothing if not loyal. And so he stood with Fitzjames in the wardroom on Erebus, glad to be indoors for the while, at least, and kept the rightfully annoyed Captain occupied with minutely small talk for as long as he could, as the party he had accompanied traded necessary supplies between ships, and until he saw young Jopson in the companionway, signalling him that the nefarious mission had been successful, and that they were free to take their leave. Little then gratefully made his excuses to Fitzjames, who was gracious and charming as always, though still obviously annoyed at Crozier’s absence. Little had never before been glad or relieved to take leave of the relative warmth of Erebus at the end of one of these visits, but today, as their small party cleared the snow ramp from the ship’s deck and made their way out onto the open ice, the knot that had been cramping in his gut loosened, and he began to breathe more easily in spite of the frigid bite of the air in his lungs. Whatever might be hidden within the oddly decorative chest that Jopson and Peglar were carrying between them was no business of his, and nothing that he wanted to know. 

 

Meanwhile on Erebus, Henry Collins hurried up to the wardroom, saluting Captain Fitzjames and removing his cap as he entered. 

“Your report, Mr. Collins?” asked the Captain, expecting the worst.

“It was just as you said, Sir. They went straight into your personal stores. Didn’t see me at all. But it was queer, Sir. It wasn’t liquor they took. Not a bottle.” 

“Not the liquor?” Fitzjames frowned. He was certain that Crozier’s own stores would run out sooner or later, most likely sooner, all things considered, and that the remains of his own store of wines and spirits would be pilfered directly. “What did they take then?” Collins shook his shaggy head.

“Beg pardon, but I’m not entirely sure, Sir. It was a single trunk, medium sized, red, I think, and rather more ornamented than is usual. Fancy like, Sir, with gold decorations, as if it was a lady’s for travelling.” 

As Collins described the purloined trunk, Fitzjames could feel the blood drain from his face, and the cup of tea he had just drunk attempt to make its way back to the light of day. This was far worse than the theft of a few bottles of whisky or brandy; this was a disaster of the highest order! How had that drunken bastard known? And just what was he playing at? Did he know how this very discovery had haunted James’s dreams for months now, and not only the nightmares? The only thing that James Fitzjames was entirely sure of, as he stood as still as if Collins had been Medusa herself, was that this situation must be dealt with secretly, personally, and immediately. Can a Gorgon’s stony victim still be lathered in cold sweat? Can he still feel himself twitch in ways he would rather not? 

“Sir?” Collins peered worriedly into his Captain’s face, which was frozen into an inscrutable expression of distant horror. “Are you feeling well Sir? Shall I fetch a doctor?” Collins’s broad, earnest brow was furrowed with worry. Captain Fitzjames gave his head a brief shake, then tilted his chin up in his more usual haughty demeanour. 

“Not to worry, Mr. Collins,” he said, his voice and manner back to their customary heartiness. “’Tis simply a personal matter to be worked out between Captain Crozier and myself, man to man. No great cause for concern. I shall care for a few trifling needs here first, then make a brief visit to Terror myself, so as to sort the situation completely. I’m sure that nothing more than a misunderstanding has occurred here.” Collins nodded.

“Aye Sir. Shall I assemble an escort for you, or would you prefer to do so yourself?” 

“I believe that this is a visit I shall be making unaccompanied.”

“But Sir, with all respect, the wind has been picking up, and with that Thing out on the ice… “ Fitzjames turned a grim face to Collins.

“Do not trouble yourself. I will be travelling well armed.” 

 

Within a half-hour, Fitzjames was stalking swiftly across the pack ice toward Terror, his long legged stride fuelled by fierce anger at his commanding officer, his fury such that he did not even feel the bitter wind burning the bit of skin left exposed between his woollen cap and high wrapped scarf. In one gloved and mittened hand he carried a lantern; the other rested on the strap of the shotgun slung across his back. He also carried a two shot pistol in the pocket of his heavy outer coat, though he was still unsure whether he would prefer to use it on the monster called Tuunbaq, or on Francis Crozier himself. How dare he! How in God’s name had he ever learned about James’s secret collection? And what the hell did he presume to do with it? For that matter, what did he, Captain James Fitzjames, intend to do about the matter once he reached Terror? As he rounded the end of a massive pressure ridge and saw the hull of the icebound ship looming before him, lanterns flickering dimly in the storm, he realised that he had made no plan any further than coming here to confront Crozier, the drunken lout. 

Damnation!

Well, he’d survived far more dangerous situations in the past on his wits alone, and would doubtless continue to do so. The important thing at the moment was to get himself inside from this godforsaken cold, and find out just what Francis Crozier thought he was doing, pilfering James’s most personal belongings so shamelessly. Never mind an explanation for said belongings. If Francis was enough aware of their existence to perpetrate such a theft, he bore at least equal shame in the matter as James might. And there were many ways that such a situation might resolve itself. Or so James repeated in his own mind, as he waved to the men on watch aboard Terror, came on board, and divested himself of his frozen and snow-crusted slops on the lower deck, with the help of the thin steward named Gibson. Apparently the Captain was shut up in the Great Cabin, and had been all day, so James strode to the far end of the companionway, and rapped hard on the sliding door. There was, just as he had expected, no answer. He gave the door an experimental pull, but it was locked fast. Working on a suspicion, he took out the key from the same door on Erebus, rammed it into the lock, and after some twisting and jiggling, he felt something in the lock give, and the door slid open before him. 

The room appeared to be empty, at first glance, though the lamps were all lit. Then James heard what sounded like a half-stifled moan, from the direction of the closed door of the private berth reserved for the Captain. 

“Francis!” he called out, in what he hoped were the tones of a commanding officer, “This has damn well gone far enough!” There were sounds of rustling and grumbling from behind the closed door, and then the door slid back, and Francis Crozier appeared before his opposite number. 

Very much his opposite in fact; where James was wearing his full uniform and somehow had scarcely a long, dark hair out of place in spite of his brisk trek across the ice, Francis was utterly dishevelled. His fair hair was tousled, and he was in his shirtsleeves, with his braces hanging down and his shirt half unbuttoned, revealing a triangle of pink flesh below his throat, lightly dusted in silvering golden hair. He glared at James, his ice-grey eyes sharp and challenging. 

“Well?” was all he had to say, in his impatient Irish brogue. 

He’s not even handsome, James thought, irrationally, as he swallowed hard before speaking. 

“You know exactly what I speak of, Francis. A theft of personal property from my ship!” 

“Oh really?” Now the awful man smirked, and his eyes danced and twinkled. “Tell me, James, just what exactly was stolen from you?” James scowled.

“We will neither of us speak of it. I will simply collect my property, and return with it to my own ship. We shall not speak of this again.” With this he pushed past Francis, and through the door into the smaller room, where he stopped dead, eyes wide and jaw dropped. 

The tiny cabin looked more like a dressing room in the better class of brothel. Corsets, stockings, frothy petticoats, and ruffled gowns were laid and strewn over every available surface in a candy coloured, silken display of femininity that was truly breathtaking. But James had expected to see his treasures on gaudy display. What had startled and transfixed him was the centrepiece: Thomas Jopson, the handsome young steward, was tied bent over the trunk itself in the centre of the room, bound with line from the sails, and gagged with what appeared to be the Captain’s cravat. He wore a tightly laced dress of pale blue silk sprigged with white flowers, under which he must have been most tightly corseted, its skirt and a pair of pink and white petticoats flipped up at the waist, leaving his shapely legs and bottom completely bare. Well, not completely – he wore white silk stockings with blue floral clocking, held in place by pink garters, while his arse was raised proudly, bearing what looked to be the stripes left by a rattan cane, and in the middle of it all, oh God, the base of a carved ivory dildo that had been a favourite souvenir from China protruded. 

“What’s the matter?” came the mocking voice from over James’s shoulder. “You knew what was to be found in that trunk. Selected and packed it all yourself, didn’t you?” A hard hand gripped his shoulder with surprising strength, holding him in place, staring at the obscene spectacle before him as his heart pounded and his stomach churned. “Is it young Thomas-Anne you’re surprised to see? You didn’t think I wanted all that for myself, or just to spite you, did you?” 

Now Francis had stepped up beside James, and was peering curiously into James’s face, where shock had admixed itself with something like yearning and anguish. James felt tears prickle the corners of his eyes, without any consideration of why.

“Thomas-Anne?” he said softly, his voice cracking. The mute object of the inquiry ducked his head, face flushing as red as the cane stripes on his bottom. Meanwhile the hand gripping James’s shoulder had begun to gently massage, through jacket and waistcoat, and Francis’s voice was kind when he spoke again.

“It’s what Jopson likes to be called when we make believe that he’s a young girl. Good grief James, you don’t mean to tell me that you brought along all this wonderful fluff only to play with it alone?” At this his composure broke, and the tears spilled down James’s thin face. He hung his head, shame catching him up. 

“I had hoped...” The words broke off miserably. Before he could pull himself together, accuse Francis of disgusting lechery, regain his dignity, James felt a bit of silk – one of his own damn French handkerchiefs! - dabbing the tears from his face, and Francis was smiling benignly, holding out a cut glass tumbler with a small amount of whisky to James. 

“Here, you’ll feel better.” Why was this awful, charmless man being so strangely kind now, of all times? James brooded as he sipped his whiskey, and Francis had stepped into the room, and bent over Jopson on the trunk for a moment. Thomas-Anne! Really! Then Francis stood and came back to James’s side. 

“So, just out of curiosity, is there a name you particularly like to use when you dress up in these pretty things?” he asked. James half chuckled to himself. It seemed that he’d seen enough of Francis’s dirty secrets that he need not lie. 

“I rather fancy myself a Helena. “The face that launched a thousand ships” and all that,” He grinned into his glass, then nearly dropped it at the sudden slap across his backside. 

“Well, Helena,” Francis’s eyes, smile, and voice had all regained their sharp edge; “You’re not behaving very well for a young lady at all right now.” James drew a deep, shuddering breath. How long had he been dreaming utterly indecent dreams by night that began this way, and awakening glued to his nightshirt? Were his dreams about to come true here? There was only one way to find out. He looked up from under his long, dark, eyelashes, a flirtatious smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Francis, I’ve not a clue what you’re talking about!” James thrilled at the shock of another, harder slap to his bottom, his cock beginning to stiffen already. 

“On the contrary, Miss Helena, you are wantonly and deliberately behaving most disgracefully! Dressing in male clothing, with your legs revealed, drinking strong spirits, walking about alone on a Royal Navy ship full of low and dirty sailors who would leave you ruined, and using your guardian’s Christian name in conversation! You must be punished, my girl! But first, we must have you decently dressed. Thomas-Anne, if you might take this ridiculous costume off of Helena, please.” Thomas-Anne, who had evidently been quickly unbound, was on his feet in a second, and bobbing a curtsey. 

“Yes Daddy, right away.” 

“You see, Helena?” said Francis, as Thomas-Anne’s nimble fingers began the job of unfastening the multitude of buttons holding James’s – Helena’s – uniform onto his body, in a quick, businesslike manner, “Thomas-Anne knows how to behave, and how to follow orders.” 

“Really, Sir?” asked James/Helena, breath quickening, and cock jumping in his drawers, as Thomas-Anne began to unbutton his trousers. “Then why was she being caned when I came in?” This earned a light slap across a sculpted cheekbone, but Helena raised his head again, saucy and defiant. 

“That is a matter between myself and Thomas-Anne,” said Francis, running a warm, rough-skinned hand down the centre line of Helena’s freshly bared chest and belly, making his muscles jump and twitch. “But unless you’ve a problem with the arrangement, I would have you address me as “Daddy”, the same as Thomas-Anne does. And I would have you behave as obediently and unquestioningly as Thomas-Anne does as well. A demonstration, Thomas-Anne, if you will. You might have noticed that Helena’s cock is getting rather hard in those ugly drawers of hers. If you would be so good as to remove Helena’s drawers, and suck her cock for her? Is that acceptable, Helena?”

“Oh, yes Daddy,” breathed Helena, as Thomas-Anne slipped gracefully to her knees, taking the offending drawers down with her, and placed her hot, wet mouth around the head of Helena’s cock, sliding and rolling it around on her skilled tongue. 

“Now that’s a good girl,” said Daddy Francis, petting Thomas-Anne’s straight, black hair with one hand, while running the other over as much of Helena’s freshly exposed skin as he could reach, pausing here and there to tweak a nipple or squeeze a buttock, as Helena shuddered, panted, and mewled softly. Soon his knees were shaking, and he was fighting not to thrust forward into Thomas-Anne’s mouth or do any single thing without express permission. 

“Ohhh, God, yesssss...” he moaned, and suddenly Thomas-Anne’s wondrous mouth was gone, and both nipples were being twisted painfully hard. 

“Ahhh! Daddy! Pleeaaasse!!!” whimpered Helena, riding the pain in secret delight, as every nerve in his body sat up and begged. It had been so long since he’d last… And then the pain vanished, and he nearly sank to the floor in the flood of relief, and the pleasure of taking a full, deep breath. Daddy Francis pulled him over into his lap and kissed his lips, long, and gentle, wrapping him strong, warm arms, and lapping at the seam of his mouth, pressing the kiss deeper. Helene happily took his tongue into his mouth, and then pressed back with his own, in a sweet give and take, and then a third tongue was there, licking in at the side, and they tilted their heads to admit Thomas-Anne’s soft lips and skilled tongue to the kiss. The triangular kiss, with its waltz-sweet rhythm of leaning first to one side, and then the other so all could equally enjoy each other’s mouths went on for some time, until Daddy Francis finally pulled back. 

“Girls,” he said, “as lovely as this is, Helena here is still completely indecent. We must dress the girl before she freezes, or we receive any more unexpected visitors. Shall we find a chemise?” 

“Oh, yes Daddy. The one with the violet ribbons is a favourite, if I may say,” was Helena’s earnest reply. The chemise with the violet ribbons turned out to be a scandalously short wisp of nearly sheer silk, cut so low in front that her nipples were barely covered, and the tiny puffs that were meant to be its sleeves slid directly off the shoulders. Both Thomas-Anne and Daddy Francis were full of admiration for the meretricious garment, running their hands over its soft chiffon on Helena’s body, as he squirmed in sensuous delight. 

“Daddy, must Helena wear anything else, or may she stay in her chemise?” begged Thomas-Anne, turning huge blue eyes on Daddy Francis. Helena widened his warm brown eyes as well in supplication, but the verdict was that he must be fully dressed. Next was the red corset, made of Chinese silk brocade, woven in an elaborate floral pattern, and heavily stiffened with whalebone, to draw in Helena’s waist to an astonishingly small span, smaller even than Thomas-Anne’s. Again, both Daddy and Thomas-Anne ran their hands over the silken sheath, marvelling this time at the smallness of Helena’s waist. 

“I’ve trained quite a bit, of course,” said Helena, pride filling her voice as Thomas-Anne wrapped his long-fingered hands almost all the way around his waist. 

“Too much pride is unbecoming, Helena,” warned Daddy Francis. “On your knees. Thomas-Anne, bend over the side of the bunk, my dear, and lift your skirts.” Thomas-Anne complied, drawing back layers of fine fabrics to reveal that he’d been going about with the ivory dildo deep within his arse all this while. 

“Helena, get that cock out of Thomas-Anne’s arse, and put your tongue in its place. Let me watch you eat her hole, now that it’s been well stretched. Give her a right proper tongue fucking.” Thomas-Anne parted his legs, and Helena crouched between them, tight between slender thighs, and planted a kiss on each welted buttock. Then, feeling more than ever as if in a wonderful dream, he leaned down, and first gently ran his tongue around the edge of the carven ivory member lodged in Thomas-Anne’s arse. From facedown in the bedding, he moaned at just that, so Helena decided to tease a bit, sliding the dildo back and forth, giving Thomas-Anne a gentle bit of a fucking while he drew it out, all the while circling it with his tongue. Both the dirtiness of what he was doing, and the sounds of Daddy Francis’s quickening breathing as Helena drew the ivory cock all the way out, and slid his tongue as far up Thomas-Anne’s hole as he could drove his arousal even higher. He imagined what the scene must look like, as he lapped, stroked, and drove his tongue into Thomas-Anne’s arse, wringing the most wonderfully ecstatic and desperate sounds from him as he writhed, as though he might come from a tongue-fucking alone. Helena’s own cock throbbed at the idea, and he redoubled his efforts, driving his tongue as deep into the beautiful boy before him as he possibly could, in time with his muffled moans and curses. Then Helena felt big, hard, warm hands on his own arse, squeezing and kneading his buttocks, parting them to the sound of a groan of satisfaction behind him. 

“Keep going, girls. Don’t change a beautiful thing.” Daddy Francis’s voice was low and thick with want. 

“Mmmmm, Daddy!” Helena mumbled into Thomas-Anne’s arsehole, when he felt a trickle of warm oil running down over his own arse, and sending Thomas-Anne into raptures with the vibrations. Vibrations which kept on, as thick, blunt fingers began to massage the area around Helena’s hole, and then to stroke the outside of the hole itself, kindling a greater and greater desire in Helena to be, well…

“Are you a good girl here? Are you going to let Daddy finger you, fuck you, and fill you, my girl? Hmmm?” Helena attempted to nod enthusiastically without extricating her tongue from Thomas-Anne, who pushed back against his face and went rigid, sobbing and wailing into the bedclothes as he came. Daddy Francis began to laugh, low and dirty. 

“You must be a very good girl, if you can make my Thomas-Anne come so hard just tounging her arse!” As he spoke, he breached Helena’s hole with a single swift, deep push of a finger, and Helena wailed aloud too. It was perfect, just like he’d imagined for so long. He pushed back, begging wordlessly for more, face laid to the side on one of Thomas-Anne’s hot, welted cheeks, mouthing at the cane tracks. A crook of the finger and Helena gasped, begged. At least he thought he was begging. The sounds might not have even been words. But the message had obviously been clear enough, as a second finger slid in beside the first, and then a third. Oh, it had been far too long since Helena – James – he – she- had had any part of another human being inside them. 

“Please, please, pleeeaaasse,” he pleaded, a wanton creature of naked desire, emphasized rather than covered by the wisps of silk and the whorish red corset he wore. “Please, Daddy, fuck me!” Daddy Francis and the now recovering Thomas-Anne nodded to each other, and bodily hauled the writhing Helena onto the bunk, Francis following him with his trousers down, to hoist his long legs onto his shoulders, then lined up his thick cock, and drove it home. Helena caught his breath at the sudden perfect feeling of fullness and heat, deep in his belly, then pushed forward, trying for even more. Daddy Francis gave another of his dirty laughs at this, and began to slide in and out, starting with a slow, teasing rhythm that he could keep up a while, but would drive Helena mad. And drive him mad it did; soon he was tossing his head about on the pillow, chestnut hair curling with sweat and tangling itself into mad snarls. Thomas-Anne took his head in his lap, stroked his hair and face, and kissed him hard while he strained, pushing and bucking on Daddy’s cock. 

And finally, the entire mad situation caught up to Francis himself – here he was, balls-deep, fucking the life out of James Fitzjames of all people, and look at how goddamn fucking beautiful he was in a sluttish corset, completely abandoned and wanton, kissing his sweet Thomas, who looked so lovely in that dress - and Francis let himself go as well. He drove himself as hard as he could into the gorgeous man spread out under him, cursing and clutching at those beautiful, strong, white shoulders, and oh, when James came it tore the climax from him as well, and he yelled out as if in pain, while Thomas swallowed James’s ecstatic cries in his open mouth. Then all three collapsed into a sated, sweaty heap of tangled limbs and skirts. 

“Permission to spend the night aboard Terror, Captain,” mumbled James, as he drowsily attempted to loosen his corset lacings without moving his head from Jopson’s silk clad lap. 

“That entirely depends, Captain,” grumbled Francis, from where he was slumped, facedown, half on top of James. “Is the matter of the trunk of purloined perversions satisfactorily settled?” James grinned. 

“As long as we can continue to do this on a regular basis, I am most satisfied.”

**Author's Note:**

> I was just reading and responding to comments, and realised that, art immitating life, I am indeed wearing a silk chemise with violet ribbons. ;) (16th c. rather than 19th though, made of silk crepe rather than chiffon, and of a far more modest cut than anything James would wear. Or at least I have it laced far more modestly than that tramp Helena would! XD)


End file.
